The Rise And Fall Of Sherlock Holmes
by Anonymoustache
Summary: Sherlock and John are finally in a relationship. Then, Sherlock's ex-lover shows up one day at his Baker Street flat, saying that he is ready to try again. However, there's more to their past relationship than meets the eye. Will Sherlock tell John why this man has so much control over him? Will John be able to figure it out in time to save Sherlock from the demons of his past?
1. Old Demons

"Hey, buddy. How've you been these past few years?"

Sherlock stood, frozen, in the doorway of the flat. There he was, sitting in a chair; no, not just a chair, _John's _chair, right across from Sherlock's. He glared at the back of the head in front of him. "What are you doing here?" he asked frostily, conveying coldness in every sense of the word.

The head turned around to face him. "What, can't I visit an old friend?"

Sherlock walked over to stand in front of the man. He studied him carefully. It had been quite a while since he had last seen him, but he would recognize him anywhere. Stiffly gelled black hair, dark brown eyes, fair skin, and a thin, beaky nose. He wore a pair of dark denim jeans with a light pink shirt and a black blazer. He shifted slightly under Sherlock's stare. "What's with the staring, buddy?" He leaned back and stretched, showing a tantalizing bit of skin as his shirt rode up. "Take a picture, it'll last longer."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock repeated in a cold, calculating voice. "Why are you back here, sitting in _my_ flat, in _John's_ chair?"

The man raised his hands in the air. "Okay, don't get defensive, buddy. I'm just here to talk to you, that's all. Just talk." He leaned forward and looked Sherlock in the eye. "And what I'm here to talk about starts with one question; who the hell is John?"

Sherlock raised his chin stubbornly. "_John_ is my flatmate. We are…he is my…" Sherlock trailed off. What were they, exactly? They had shared some kisses (and more, Sherlock thought, but he didn't want to think about that right now, not with this vile man here), and both had expressed interest in taking their relationship further, but had never really talked about what to call themselves. What were they, anyways? Partners? Lovers? _Boyfriends_?

The other man cocked his head. "Your what?" he asked innocently. He shook his head. "Sherlock, I came here to tell you I was back in town and ready to try again."

Sherlock glared hard at him, fire in his gaze. "No. Never. You _abused _me, abused my trust and betrayed me. Remember? A few years back, when I walked out with broken ribs and black eyes and cuts and scrapes and…" he broke off, breathing loudly. He could have growled, he was so angry. "I will _never _be ready to 'try again', Victor. It runs too deep for that."

Sherlock felt something hard hit his face and his world exploded into stars and pain. He staggered backwards and fell into his chair. The next thing he knew, Victor Trevor was on top of him, pinning him to the lounge. Victor's leering face peered down at him. "So you remember that evening, do you? Well, try to remember what I can do if you displease me, _pet_." Sherlock felt a hand hovering over his belt buckle.

Sherlock's mind palace went into overdrive, focusing memories of Victor Trevor and their not-so-perfect relationship.

_One evening, Sherlock decided to go to the pub. He didn't, normally, but this day had been different than others. He had been working in the university library, when he met a strange individual behind one bookshelf. The man was mysterious and smooth-talking, two things that instantly drew Sherlock to him. He had given him the address of this pub, in case he 'wanted to find out a little more about the elusive Victor Trevor'._

_So he went, and had a few drinks. Victor showed up at the fifth, flirting madly with him. Sherlock, naturally, had been flattered. The combination of the alcohol and the fact that no one ever complemented Sherlock Holmes would cause Sherlock to make a choice he would always regret._

_The next morning, Sherlock woke up, half-naked, in a small, seedy drug alleyway, mind fighting off the after-effects of the various drugs Victor had offered him. The man himself was lying draped across Sherlock, shirtless, trousers wrinkled._

_Victor had woken up and winked at Sherlock. "How was your first shoot-up, buddy?"_

_Sherlock remembered the rush, the adrenaline, the absolute joy all at once. He sighed. "Brilliant."_

_And so began the rise of Sherlock Holmes._

_Sherlock thought of it that way whenever the subject popped up in his mind palace. The rise and fall of Sherlock Holmes; it sounded like a bad novel. The drugs, the sex, the intoxicating drunkenness that was loving Victor Trevor; that was the rise. It was all a game, a brilliant, never-ending game of pursuing that joy, that ecstasy that he could only find when he high. It was like going up on a roller coaster. The upward journey is adrenaline filled and fantastic. And then you get to the peak and sit for a minute, before your fall begins. The fall of Sherlock Holmes began one cold night, several years back. _

_Sherlock remembered that night, oh yes. They had been on their way back to the tiny bedsit they shared in the seedy part of London, high on who knows what. Victor had wanted to have some fun that night, but Sherlock didn't want to, not that night. He just wanted to lay back and enjoy the high before it was over all too quickly._

_Victor didn't like that._

_All Sherlock remembered next was pain and violence and a never-ending spiral of doubt and betrayal. He woke up the next morning in bed with Victor, one hand tied to the bedpost, the other broken as part of Victor's 'convincing'._

_That was where Sherlock's life began to come apart at the seams. That was the night he began a downward spiral, the night that marked the beginning of the fall of Sherlock Holmes._

Sherlock exited his mind palace to see Victor staring at him. "Well?" he said impatiently. "Do you remember?"

Sherlock nodded. For the first time since he had left Victor, he felt scared. He tried to speak, but it came out as a whimper. He could have hit himself; never show signs of weakness, that was the first rule of thumb when dealing with a situation such as this. He cleared his throat. "Yes. Very well, and graphically."

Victor stood up, easing himself off of Sherlock's lap. He looked down at him and chuckled maliciously. "Well? Don't just sit there…run off to the bedroom and get things ready, Sherl, and I'll be there in a minute. Just going to make myself a piece of toast with that lovely jam on it…" he said, voice trailing off as he entered the kitchen. John's jam, Sherlock thought. That was John's jam he was eating.

His face grew hot. John. What was he going to do? John wouldn't be home for another two hours; maybe he could just get Victor off quickly and he would never have to tell John. It wasn't honorable, his inner voice said. Why don't you trust John? He loves you, and if you tell him about this guy he'll stop him. You'll never get beaten by Victor again.

Sherlock sighed and bowed his head, a silent tear dripping from his eye. No, he could never tell John. John was so…so John; so loyal, so kind, so beautiful. Sherlock was sure that anything like this would scare him off, and he would never see his army doctor again. No, the best thing to do was to just get it over with. More than likely Victor would disappear after one quick shag and he would never see him again. It was better than suffering the pain that would come if he said no.

He sensed movement and looked up to see Victor standing by his bedroom door, holding a piece of toast with liberal amounts of jam on it. He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. "I'm waiting, Sherl."

Sherlock wiped away the solitary tear. "Yes, Victor."


	2. Deceived Parties

John wasn't an unreasonable man. He was strict with Sherlock on some things, yes; but overall, his basic rules were fair and justifiable. No heads in the refrigerator, no violin after midnight, no more than three nicotine patches at a time; they were for Sherlock's (and his) own good.

So, it was understandable that when John Watson came home to the flat to find his partner in bed with another man he was a bit upset.

The two of them were sleeping on Sherlock's bed, in his sheets. One was Sherlock, and John didn't know who the other was, but damn if he was going to find out.

He picked up an old shoe and threw it at the man's head. "Oi!" he said loudly. Both Sherlock and the other man's eyes flew open. Sherlock seemed to be shivering and trying his best to cower. _He must be feeling guilty _now, _wouldn't you think?_ John thought as he stood savagely over the two of them.

"Sherlock," he started tersely. "Why the _bloody hell _is there another man with you in our bed?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, but before he could speak he let out a loud yelp as Victor pinched his spine. Victor sat up, keeping his legs firmly locked around Sherlock's waist, and, smiling, shook John's hand.

"You must be John." He said warmly. "It's good to meet you, finally."

John's face was going all sorts of purples and reds that Sherlock knew didn't bode well. "What the hell do you mean, _finally_? Look, all I want to know is what you're doing in bed with my boyfriend!" John blushed deeply at the boyfriend part, but he felt that he had to get the point across.

Victor looked up, a fake look of confusion crossing his face. "_Boyfriend? _Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Mr. John, sir. I had no idea Sherl had a boyfriend…none at all. Why, he only mentioned that you were a distant friend of his who lived upstairs!" Victor leaned down and slapped Sherlock carelessly across the bum. "Sherlock, why didn't you tell me you were attached?"

Sherlock pushed his face into the pillow, trying to hide the tears forming in his eyes. This was it; the moment that it started again. This was the second fall of Sherlock Holmes.

He heard a voice-John's voice-saying something he couldn't quite make out. He lifted his head ever so slightly.

"That's okay," John said in a voice so cold Sherlock would have sworn the room temperature had just dropped several degrees, "You can keep him. I guess there was a…a misunderstanding between Mr. Holmes and I."

Victor shot John a fake smile. "Oh, that's so generous of you. I just love Sherl; he's a treasure, he really is!" Victor rubbed his palms in circles on Sherlock's bare back as John stormed from the room.

Sherlock turned to him. "Why?" he rasped. "Why are you doing this, Victor?"

Victor smiled sweetly. "I told you, Sherlock; I want you back. And this time, you're not getting away."

He turned around to grab a bottle of lube from one of Sherlock's desk drawers. "Now where were we?"

He reached around Sherlock's waist, thumbing the waistband of Sherlock's boxers. Suddenly Sherlock jerked away. "No. No, not this morning, Victor, please. I really don't feel up to it."

Victor pulled back a fist and the next thing Sherlock knew his nose was bleeding rather badly and he had a spectacularly bruised black eye.

Victor leaned in close and grabbed fistfuls of the waistband of Sherlock's boxers. "You listen here, pet. When I ask you 'where were we', you tell me where we were. And we continue. Got it?"

They stayed like that for a minute, Victor pinning the man down, Sherlock looking up at him. Then, suddenly Sherlock rolled, falling with a painful thump onto the floor and taking Victor over with him. He stood as fast as he could, and while Victor was still getting up he made a beeline for the door. He was just laying his hand on the doorknob when suddenly a hand grabbed the back of his boxers and pulled him backwards.

He fell onto Victor, who wasted no time in thoroughly beating him. He punched him, over and over, until blood dripped from Sherlock's mouth and his head lolled onto his shoulders lazily, until Sherlock couldn't think because the whole world was pain and agony and let it stop let John come back let him rescue me let it stop make it stop it painpainpainpain…

And suddenly Victor stopped. He pulled Sherlock up to meet him and began to kiss him fiercely.

Sherlock broke it off and received a punch to the ribs. He wheezed and spat blood onto the floor. "Victor…" he rasped. Victor scooted back, allowing Sherlock to brace himself against the wall and pull himself up. The consulting detective staggered towards the door and went out.

This time Victor let him.


	3. Tangled Lies

Sherlock staggered towards the bathroom, blood dripping from his mouth, his eye swollen shut, trying not to collapse, lest Victor come after him.

And John. What was he going to do about _John_? He almost felt like crying. This was just too much.

He opened the door to the bathroom and, without looking up, stumbled in and fell to the floor.

The next thing he knew there was a warm, familiar hand on his back. "Sherlock?" a worried voice said. "Sherlock, are you all right?"

Sherlock turned over and John gasped. Sherlock spoke carefully, blood dripping from his mouth, staining the alabaster skin and perfect lips scarlet red. "John…I'm…sorry…so sorry…he's…he's an old…old friend…made me do it…can't say no…but I did…no, not this again…John, I'm…I'm falling, John, catch me, please catch me!" his voice rose in hysteria.

John took in the sight before him with wide eyes. "Sherlock…Sherlock, just calm down, love, and tell me exactly what happened."

Sherlock looked up into John's face. "He…he threatened to…"

Just at that moment Victor Trevor appeared in the door of the bathroom. "Ah, Sherl, there you are!" Victor leaned over and pulled the consulting detective up onto his feet, causing him to wince. "Come on, buddy, let's get you home."

John stopped him in the doorway. "Wait, just wait a minute, Mr. Trevor. What happened to Sherlock?" he said, very concerned now.

Victor leaned in close, as though what he had to say was secret. "Went down to the pub last night, the two of us did. Ol' Sherl was being a freak, as always, and said the wrong thing to the wrong person, and so got beat up real bad, like so." He said, all in one breath. He sighed. "Sherl never could resist showing off for everyone. We were at uni together; we were lovers for a while, and then Sherlock had to leave for work elsewhere. But here we are, together at last." He smiled fondly and smoothed Sherlock's curls.

He looked up at a dumbstruck John. "Well, we really have to be going; things to do, people to avoid!" he said cheerily. "See you soon, Johnny!"

He left, dragging a semi-conscious Sherlock along with him.

John shook his head. That couldn't be right. Why would Sherlock have to leave for 'work elsewhere'? He could always get work, no matter where he went. And why would he get in a fight at a pub? No, a better question would be; why was Sherlock _at _a pub? The man was not a drinker and did not socialize well. So what had he been doing at the pub last night? If it was a case, he would have called John…wouldn't he?

John frowned, his eyes darkening. Well, whatever the reason, John didn't care. It was obvious that Sherlock had played him for a patsy, just using him until his _real_ lover came along. John could have spit, he was so furious with himself. He would never speak to that two-faced bastard again, he promised himself.

That night, John went out with Sarah on his first real date in months; those months when he and Sherlock had started…dating, or whatever one called it when one started snogging one's flatmate. But, he found that he really enjoyed it. He had missed women, he decided.

And for once, John Watson didn't end up sleeping on Sarah Sawyer's couch.


	4. Last Chances

John opened his eyes. Sunlight was streaming through a window…but it wasn't his window. His arms were wrapped around a smaller, warm body, which he recognized as…Sarah. Last night came rushing back; Sherlock, beaten and bruised, in bed with another man…he had gone to Sarah's house, mumbling some sort of excuse that he didn't even remember. She had taken pity on him, lent him her couch. But somehow, at some point, he had ended up in her bed. He sighed. Did this make him just as bad as Sherlock?

He frowned. No, it didn't. Sherlock had done it first, he had slept with someone else last night, and that officially terminated their relationship. He was perfectly within his right to shag another person.

Sarah's eyes flicked open. "Morning." She said cheerfully, snuggling into John's arms. He tightened them around her and kissed her forehead. It didn't matter, not anymore

…

"I _said, _go get me a drink."

Victor hit Sherlock hard, stars forming in front of Sherlock's eyes. He pushed the man off the couch and lay down there in his place. He looked at Sherlock, kneeling before him. "Well? Go get me a beer already, useless. I don't have all day!"

Sherlock stood carefully and staggered his way to the kitchen. He grabbed a beer bottle from the refrigerator and walked back in, zigzagging around the mess that was Victor's flat.

Victor flipped the lid open. "Thanks, Sherl." He took a sip and sighed, refreshed. "Now, today let's move all your stuff over from your old flat to here. After all, you have to be somewhere where I can keep an eye on you."

Sherlock stiffened. He had no intention whatsoever of moving back in with the bastard. He cleared his throat and focused on a simple ploy that would hopefully work. "Victor…why don't you let _me _move all my stuff over here? Then you can go and do…whatever you like, and you won't have to work so hard." He purred temptingly.

Victor considered it. "Yeah. Yeah, I think that's a good idea, Sherl." Victor stood up, beer in hand, and went to one of the cupboards, pulling Sherlock's phone from where he had hidden it. "Now, take your phone with you, and call me every hour, on the hour. If I don't hear from you there will be…consequences. Understand?" he said strictly.

Sherlock leaned into Victor and kissed his cheek gently, hating himself all the while. "Yes, Vic. I'll call you every hour, on the hour, and I won't forget."

Victor nodded, scratching a hand over his chest. "Good. Now run along; I have things to do, and you'll just get in the way."

Sherlock nodded, and headed for the door. "Thank you, Victor. I'll see you later."

Sherlock left as fast as he could.

He walked all the way to Baker Street, not having any money for a taxi. He shivered against the wind; it was cold out, and he was wearing only a thin gray t-shirt and a pair of too-small pyjamas of Victor's. He eventually made it to 221B, practically frozen.

Sherlock stumbled up the steps, shivering in his thin shirt. Mrs. Hudson appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She saw his face and gasped. "Oh, Sherlock!" she exclaimed, concerned. "What happened, dearie?"

Sherlock ignored her, staggering up the stairs towards the door. "I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson. Just…just a mugger, is all."

Mrs. Hudson wrung her hands. "Oh, dear, the streets just aren't safe anymore. Do you need anything, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up towards the flat. "I need John." he rasped.

…

The man in question was currently sitting in Sarah's flat, watching crap telly and eating a cheese sandwich.

As the credits rolled, John leaned back, his arm around Sarah. When was the last time he had watched an entire TV show without a certain consulting detective yelling advice and admonishments at the characters? He couldn't remember, but it was definitely a nice change.

Sarah snuggled further into John's arms. "John?" she asked quietly.

John turned to her, wrapping both arms around her smaller figure and sighed. "Ok, time for serious talk…I know that tone too well." He said teasingly. "But what is it?" he said, in a more serious tone.

Sarah hesitated slightly, and then spoke. "What happened between…between you and Sherlock? Why did I wake up this morning with you in my bed?"

John sighed again. This was a painful subject; he had only found out a day ago. "Sherlock…is cheating on me. With an old flame of his."

Sarah clucked sympathetically. "Oh, John." She said sadly. "I'm so sorry. Though I can't say it's too much of a surprise…I always had him pegged as a flighty one."

John nodded, too deep in thought to say anything. He looked up. "There was one weird thing about it, though, Sarah; when I came home and found Sherlock with him, he had been beaten quite badly. Black eye, broken ribs, the works. His…new boyfriend…said he got into a fight at a pub."

Sarah tilted her head, confusion lighting her gaze. "Sherlock? At a pub?" she laughed uneasily. "I don't know the man that well, but even I know that he wouldn't be a pub kind of person."

John stood suddenly, dislodging Sarah from his arms. "Noooo…." He whispered. "No, he's not. And there's something else. Something I can't believe I didn't notice before."

He stood quietly, staring out the window for some time. Finally, Sarah tugged on his arm. "John?" she said quietly. "What is it?"

He turned back, eyes haunted. "I had it wrong. I had it all wrong."

John ran out the door as fast as he could.

Sarah followed, confused. "John? John, what's wrong?"

But John was already gone.


	5. Stunning Realizations

Sherlock looked around the flat, frowning. John wasn't there. He wasn't in his bedroom, he wasn't in the loo, he wasn't in the kitchen…_he just wasn't there_.

Sherlock didn't know what to do. His injuries were hurting rather badly, and he didn't know how much longer he could sustain consciousness. He sucked in a breath, trying to ignore the dull ache in his chest.

For a wild, fleeting moment he thought about calling his brother. Of course, there was no way he could do that. Mycroft had been the first to find out about Victor's abuse, back in Sherlock's uni days, and Sherlock had felt ashamed and lost for so long after his brother took him away from the school. He wasn't going to go through that cycle again; not if he could help it.

Sherlock leaned back against the wall, thinking hard. Victor would be expecting his call in a little under thirty minutes; if he hurried and got together what little he needed to survive, he could be on a train out of London by the time his second call was due. Sherlock stood carefully, swaying slightly, and staggered to his bedroom, knocking over a pile of books about zoology and an overgrown spider plant on his way.

Sherlock entered the bedroom and immediately began searching for his bank card. The night before, Victor had taken his wallet and everything in it, including his ID. However, his debit card had not been in there. The only problem that now remained was for Sherlock to find where he had put it.

After searching for a good twenty minutes, he came up with nothing but an old school picture of him and several dust bunnies. That was when Sherlock finally, finally remembered where it was; in John's wallet. He groaned. John had borrowed it to buy groceries last week and had never given it back. Sherlock had no cash; there was no way for him to leave London now.

The consulting detective staggered out of the room towards the kitchen. He fell halfway across, landing heavily on the carpet. He crawled towards the wall, bracing his lower body against it, and as he swam in and out of a pain-induced haze, tried to remember the first time he had kissed John.

_It had been perfect_, he remembered. _They had just finished a case that had stumped even Mycroft. They took a taxi home, laughing high-spiritedly all the way. When they got there, the two of them had leaned against the wall, enjoying the rush of the adrenaline and the joy of everything that the day had been. And it had just…happened. Sherlock didn't remember how, or who, or why, or even at what point. He just remembered laughing one minute, and the next minute their lips were together and they were kissing, and it was wonderful and good and even better than cocaine…_

Sherlock, deep in his mind palace, heard a far away voice calling to him. "Sherlock…"

Suddenly, he was violently yanked from his mind palace as another being shook him. "Sherlock! Sherlock, wake up. I'm here, Sherlock, you're fine, just breathe…"

Sherlock looked up, eyesight hazy. Why was it so dark? Couldn't this person turn on a light somewhere? And who was it, anyways? It was a stocky figure, short, with brownish hair and a very ugly jumper…

"John?" Sherlock whispered. "John, are you…are you here? Is this you?"

John nodded, choking up. "Yes, it's me, Sherlock. God, Sherlock; I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry. I just…I was blind. I didn't see what was right in front of my face. I'm so _sorry_!"

The tears were falling freely from both men's faces. Sherlock groaned. "John…do you think you could help…" he broke off in a wheezy cough, "help me up?"

John nodded, trying to control his free-flying emotions. "Sure, Sherlock. Of course I can."

He put his hands under the man's armpits and picked him up carefully. Sherlock got to his feet, wavering slightly. John helped him to his room. "Sherlock, stay right here, okay?" John said loudly in his best victim-sympathy voice. "I'll be right back to take care of you and patch you up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, I am not a child. You don't need to use the victim voice with me." He rasped, giving John one of his signature glares.

John chuckled as he walked out. Even when he had been abused and injured, Sherlock was still…well, Sherlock-ish. He headed up the stairs to get everything ready, determined to take no longer than five minutes.

…

Sherlock leaned back on his bed and sighed contentedly. He felt happy, much happier than he had less than an hour ago. He had his John back, and Victor would never touch him again. He closed his eyes, focusing on restoring his mind palace, which had somehow gotten very run-down over the past twenty-four hours.

He heard footsteps in the hallway. "Back already, John?" he said, amused. "You're faster than I thought!" he said teasingly.

"Really? I could have sworn I was stepping quietly." Said a smooth, silky voice that was most decidedly not John. Sherlock paled. That voice belonged to one man, and one man only.

He gulped. "Victor. What are you doing here?" his voice squeaked on the last sentence.

Victor sat down on the bed and laid a hand on the side of Sherlock's face. "Sherlock, buddy!" he said cheerily. "I can't just let you go. You're _my_ boyfriend, not John's, and in the future you should remember that more carefully." He slapped the side of Sherlock's face violently, causing Sherlock to wince in pain.

Suddenly, Victor had a gun in his hand, and it was pointed between Sherlock's eyes. "You'll come with me now and be a good little slut of a boyfriend like you're _supposed_ to, or I swear I'll pull this trigger."

Sherlock laughed hollowly. "Death would be preferable at this point."

Victor smiled. "As you like it." He swiveled and pointed the gun at the door, turning his head to look maliciously at Sherlock. "If you don't come with me, I will shoot your lovely army doctor right through his _heart_." He growled in a low voice.

Sherlock got up off the bed and staggered towards the door. "No." he rasped. "You'll have to shoot me first."

Victor stood up and, pulling the tie from around his neck, looped it around Sherlock's own and pulled tight, forming a kind of leash. He yanked Sherlock forward, causing him to gasp for breath. "You. Come with me. NOW."

Sherlock went limp. Victor smiled, triumphant. "Okay, Sherl. Let's head out; let's go home."

….

"Sherlock? Okay, I got my bag, sorry it took so long, the bloody stethoscope got all tangled up with the antiseptic ointment…"

John trailed off as he entered Sherlock's empty room. He panicked immediately, flipping over pillows and blankets, turning over the messes on the floor. "Sherlock? SHERLOCK!" he screamed. "Oh my god, where did  
he go?"

Mrs. Hudson appeared in the door. "Why John, dear, whatever is the matter? I heard you scream all the way downstairs in my flat; and this was different, dearie, heaven knows I hear your regular screams often enough when you and Sherlock…"

John cut her off. "Mrs. Hudson, have you seen Sherlock recently? Like, today?"

Mrs. Hudson appeared to be deep in thought. She tilted her head. "No, I don't remember…wait, wait just a moment…" she closed her eyes. "Just a few minutes ago, I heard two pairs of footsteps going out…thought it might be one of the other lodgers…"

John darted past Mrs. Hudson and out the door, not even bothering to put on a coat.


	6. Abusive Boyfriends

Stupid, stupid John, he mused as he ran down the sidewalk, blindly shoving people aside and trying to decide where they might have gone. He should have known that Victor was keeping tabs on Sherlock. He was sure, of course, that it had been Victor who had taken Sherlock; the man was way too possessive for John's liking.

He stopped near the corner of Baker Street, contemplating what to do. He could run blindly down the avenue yelling Sherlock's name (_yes, because that will do so much good for finding him, _said a distinctly Sherlock-like voice in his head). He could call Mycroft; except when they finally found Sherlock the man would most likely kill John for getting his overbearing older brother involved. He wracked his brains…what would Sherlock do? Then, it came to him; Greg.

He remembered Sherlock telling him about the last time he had overdosed. Greg had found him, lying in the gutter, covered in filth and half-naked. The inspector had taken him home and helped him back to health. Greg was responsible for Sherlock staying off drugs, according to Sherlock. Mycroft may have been Sherlock's brother at the time, but Greg was really the one who Sherlock would turn to if things got tough. John relaxed just a bit, and, hailing a cab, pulled out his phone to call the one man who could help him make things right.

…

"Breathing. Not so fucking boring now, is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's vision clouded and he choked as the chain Victor made him wear tightened around his neck. He gasped for breath, trying to alleviate the pressure on his throat. "Victor…Victor, I'm sorry, I'll try to be better, I promise…" he murmured in a raspy voice.

Victor leaned in close. "You better be." he snarled, and kicked Sherlock in the ribs for good measure, causing the consulting detective to double over in pain. "Now come with me; we're going to bed, and if you aren't good you'll have a lot more pain to look forward to than just a kick in the ribs." he said threateningly.

Victor leaned back in his chair, sighing contentedly. "Remember our uni days, Sherlock?" he asked calmly. "Remember all the fun, the ecstasy, the late nights…oh god, those late nights…" he moaned. He looked down at Sherlock with glazed eyes. "We could do it again, Sherlock. Find a dealer. All the pain; gone. Remember the feeling? I'm sure you do."

Sherlock glared at the man. "I was _clean _all those years, Victor. For John. And so I will remain." He spat in a choked voice.

Victor pulled him in close. "Not if I say otherwise." He said, leering down at the consulting detective.

Victor stood and walked towards the bedroom of his small flat, dragging Sherlock along with him. "One of these days, Sherlock, the pain of it all will just become too much for you again. And when it does, you'll be _begging _me for relief."

….

Greg looked up as John burst into his office. "John. What do you need? I was just off to a meeti…" he trailed off, looking around John and towards the hallway. "Where's Sherlock?"

John's eyes twitched frantically. "I don't know…the man…took him and…he's gone…it's my fault, I should have…should have seen the signs earlier…god, they were all there, how did I not see it…I let him down, he's going to die…"

Greg grabbed John's shoulders, concerned. "John. Calm down and tell me what the hell you're on about!"

John took a deep breath. "Do you know a man named Victor Trevor?"

Greg frowned, thinking. "Y'know, I think Sherlock may have mentioned him once or twice after the last overdose, but I can't really remember."

John looked at him curiously. "What did he say about him?"

Greg was deep in thought. "Well, it wasn't all that clear, him in withdrawal and all, but I thought the guy was an old university friend of his."

John nodded. "That's right. But he wasn't just a friend, Greg." He sighed. "Victor was Sherlock's first boyfriend, apparently."

Greg laughed uneasily. "Sherlock's _boyfriend_? You're off your rocker, John."

John balled his hands into fists. "Greg, it's true. Victor was Sherlock's old boyfriend, and he's come back. I found…" John took a long breath, trying to hold back the tears in his eyes. "I found him and Victor in bed the other day when I came home."

Greg looked concerned. "Ah." He looked down awkwardly. "Well, John, I'm sorry, I really am. But there's not an awful lot I can do about Sherlock cheating on you with some past flame…"

"Sherlock had been beaten to within an inch of his life." John said quietly. "I walked in on him in the bathroom later and he was practically bleeding to death all over the tile."

Greg's eyes widened. "What happened? Did he give you a reason?"

"Victor said that Sherlock had gotten into a fight at the pub. But…"

Greg broke in, knowing what was coming. "…But Sherlock doesn't drink or go to pubs." He ran a hand through his graying hair. "Oh, Christ. You…you think Victor's _abusive_?" he whispered.

John nodded solemnly, and then unexpectedly swore a blue streak. "I missed all the signs the other day; the possessiveness, the bruising, the winces…" he shook his head, frustrated with himself, tears pricking at his eyes. "Sherlock came back to Baker Street this morning. At first I thought he was dead, he was lying so still on the living room carpet. But he moved and…" John broke off, a single tear falling from his eyelid. "I helped him to the bedroom, so I could patch him up. I was only gone for a few minutes, just enough time to get my bag; when I got back, Sherlock was gone."

John thunked down into a chair and put his head in his hands. "I know it was him, Greg." He said, voice almost a whisper. "I swear to god, if he lays a hand, no, a _finger_ on Sherlock, i'm going to kill the bloody bastard!" he yelled.

Greg sat down opposite him. "We have to find him, John. I can't let him down again." Greg unconsciously rubbed a faded scar on his arm as he spoke. What was that from, John wondered? He made a mental note to ask later, when Sherlock was safe in his arms again.

Greg picked up the phone and dialed a number. He spoke to John as it connected. "I'll put my best men on it right away." He turned and spoke into the phone. "Get me Dimmock and anyone with experience in search and rescue or domestic abuse victims." He turned back to John and looked the army doctor in the eye.

"We won't let him get away with this, John. We'll get Sherlock back, if it takes us all our lives."


	7. Beautiful Memories

"Wake up already, you lazy arse!"

Sherlock woke up to see Victor standing near the end of the bed, glaring at him. "Get dressed, Sherl. We're going to go out for the day because you've been such a _good_ little boyfriend." Victor smiled coldly. "See that you remain that way."

Victor left the room, shutting and locking the door behind him. Sherlock slid carefully out of bed and, walking across to the small dresser that housed his and Victor's clothes, took in his appearance in the mirror.

He looked _awful._

His eyes were ringed with dark purple circles, a combination of sleep deprivation and bruising. There was a glowing reddish-brown hickey on his neck and fingernail marks on his chest and back. His backside hurt like hell, and he was fairly sure that one of his fingers was broken.

He carefully opened the dresser and shifted ancient smelly blankets and old, dirty sheets to reveal a small, brown box, wrapped carefully in his favorite purple shirt. He unwound the purple shirt and was about to toss it in the corner when he changed his mind and pulled it over his bare shoulders. After all, it was the only shirt of his very own that he had. He took a deep breath. The shirt smelled like home…like John. Was he ever going to see John again? He sighed, holding back tears (because Sherlock Holmes did not cry, no sir) and tenderly picked up the nondescript brown box. He sat back on the bed and flipped the lid open, trying to keep control over his emotions.

The first thing in the box was a picture of him and John. It had been taken the night after their first meeting, the night that they chased a cab driver all around London. They were laughing, and John laughing was a beautiful and adorable thing, Sherlock had decided. He had hacked into Mycroft's computer one day during a dinner with the family and printed off the photo from the CCTV footage. It was by far his favorite photo of them both.

He pulled out a small stack of other photos, bound by a rubber band. He pulled the rubber band off gently and spread the pictures on the bed. There were two of John; in one, he was asleep at the table wearing his favorite jumper with a cold cup of tea in front of him; the other was a picture from his army days, shirtless, wearing a pair of army-issued trousers and looking very tan and muscular. Sherlock loved that picture; it made John look absolutely flawless.

There was one of Lestrade, looking exasperated as he always did when Sherlock was around; one of Mrs. Hudson, smiling at the camera and mouthing something that looked like _Sherlock_; one of Molly, working with Sherlock next to the body of an old man in the morgue; there was even one of Mycroft, with his ever-present look of cool, collected calm on his face.

Next, Sherlock pulled out a small, pink object, and smiled. It was the phone, from their first case. He had gotten a different one, after the case was over with, and had kept this one in perfect working order just in case it broke (and he supposed that yes, sentiment did have something to do with it). Sometime when Victor went out without him (he would eventually feel the need to have a night away, most likely at the pub, Sherlock theorized) he was going to use the phone to call John and reassure him…and hopefully tell him where he was and what was happening.

After that, the objects were mostly simple mementoes that had similar meanings to the phone. There was a small can of yellow spray paint from the Chinese smugglers case, a certain memory stick that Sherlock had never actually given back (it was good to have blackmail material…that little data holder had gotten him out of a fair amount of Christmas dinners), a little bag of sesame seeds (barbecue-John's favorite flavor), an old, empty tube of lipstick from a certain morgue assistant (she had left it at Baker Street during the Christmas party and Sherlock needed some for an experiment; he told himself often that he only kept it because he always forgot to throw it out, but that wasn't quite true), four of Lestrade's ID badges (Sherlock had taken to pickpocketing him whenever he was being stupid, which was quite often, actually), a spare set of keys to the flat, and an old, smushed, familiar deerstalker that had gained him quite a bit of fame, and had also been part of his downfall.

He looked fondly at these items. The box was the only thing he had thought to grab before he was dragged away by Victor; he had smuggled it out under his shirt. The box held his life; the box had his heart inside it, all the things he held most dear. If anyone were ever to find it, Sherlock would be devastated. He told himself that worse things could happen (decapitation and strangulation and other nasty things like that were much worse than losing a little box), but deep down he knew that this box could very well expose to his enemies every last thing he held close to him. He _definitely _had to keep it away from Victor; if _he_ found it, life would be disastrous.

Sherlock heard a sudden movement in the hallway and quickly arranged the items and photographs back in the box, stuffing it back under his small amount of clothes in the dresser. He really needed to find a better place to hide it, Sherlock mused as he pulled his only pair of trousers over his tight black pants. He searched around for a belt for almost five minutes, and the only one he could find was an old one of Victor's. Sherlock didn't want a piece of anything that had touched Victor's body on him, but he really did need a belt; he had lost even more weight in the time that Victor had taken him and if he didn't have a belt or suspenders or something to hold his trousers up, he would have a time going out in public. He settled for tossing the belt aside and using an old tie to cinch the stained black trousers around his ever-diminishing waistline.

"Hello? I don't have all day, Sherl. Hurry up before I get angry." Victor yelled from the front door. Sherlock bolted out the door, heading towards his abuser and desperately wishing he had one of John's jumpers to get him through the day.


	8. Chance Meetings

"Two, please."

Sherlock looked around. Victor was taking him to a restaurant? To eat? He shook his head, confused. This didn't make sense.

He followed Victor to a small booth near the back. It wasn't a restaurant Sherlock recognized, though he knew it was somewhere in central London, judging by the time and distance it took to get there. Victor sat down and pulled Sherlock close beside him, clutching the detective's hand tightly. To anyone else, the two of them looked like a couple desperately in love. But Sherlock knew that Victor was just keeping a hold on him in case he got any ideas.

Sherlock allowed his eyes and senses to wander, gathering information on the situation at hand. It was a small, cozy restaurant; obviously a popular place for couples to gather, as there were several seated all around him. It seemed to have some kind of a Chinese theme, judging by the decorations and wall hangings. It was a fairly new place, couldn't be more than 2 or 3 months old. A waiter passed by with a platter of food, and Sherlock sniffed deeply. Yes, it was Chinese, definitely. Orange chicken with sesame. His stomach gave an unfortunate growl, and Victor smiled.

"Oh, no, Sherlock," he said maliciously, "You didn't really think I brought you here to buy you dinner, did you?"

Just then a waiter popped up to their table. "Good evening, gentlemen." He spoke in a gentle Korean accent (fake, Sherlock thought, it wasn't his natural tone of voice). "What can I get you tonight?"

Victor scanned the menu. "I think I'll have the sweet and sour pork with fried rice." He closed the menu and handed it to the waiter. "And just plain water to drink."

The waiter nodded, smiling cheerfully. He turned to Sherlock. "And for you, sir?"

Victor interrupted. "No, he's not hungry." He stared at Sherlock, who saw malice in his eyes. "Are you, Sherl?"

Sherlock hesitated, then shook his head. "No. I'm not."

The waiter grinned. "Very well. I will be back with your dishes in a little while."

As the waiter left, Victor smiled triumphantly. "That's my Sherl," he said proudly, "never hungry."

They sat in silence, and half an hour later the waiter brought Victor his pork. He began to devour it, savoring the sweetness of the meat. Sherlock's stomach strongly objected at the smell of food. He hadn't eaten in days. He felt like he was going to be sick.

"Victor…" he whispered, hoping speaking wouldn't cause too much damage.

Victor looked up sharply from his food, glaring daggers at Sherlock. "_What_, Sherlock? Can't you see I'm busy enjoying this wonderful dinner?"

Sherlock sucked in a breath. "I don't feel very good." he swallowed his pride for the next part, trying to keep his dignity intact. "May I be allowed to use the loo?"

Victor nodded and waved a hand carelessly in the direction of the wash rooms. "Go, go. Be back in five minutes, though; no more, no less, or there will be trouble. Understand?"

Sherlock nodded, relieved. He left the table quickly, hoping Victor wouldn't change his mind.

As soon as he entered the bathroom, he darted to a stall and emptied what little there was in his stomach into the toilet. It was mostly bile and some water, and Sherlock moaned, his head spinning. He was miserable, and he was alone. What was the point of life, if it was going to be like this?

He rested his head on the edge of the seat and tried to escape to his mind palace as best he could for the time being.

…

"Look, Greg, I really don't know about this…"

Greg rolled his eyes. "John. I said, and Mycroft agrees with me, that you need to get out. Hanging about the flat waiting for news about Sherlock isn't good for you, mate."

"I thought you wanted to help me find him." John said coldly.

Greg sighed, exasperated. "I want to find Sherlock and bring him home just as much as anyone. But this…it's unhealthy. Sherlock wouldn't want you holed up in the flat waiting for him to come home."

John laughed for the first time since Sherlock's disappearance. "You know, I just bet he would, Greg. I bet he would."

Greg laughed too, glad to finally have gotten through to John. "Come on. Mycroft and I already have it planned; we're going to this new Chinese place down the block a little ways from the Yard. Heard it has pretty good pork."

John nodded, still anxious for his partner, though not as much now as before.

They took a cab to the restaurant, where Mycroft was already waiting, checking his pocket watch every so often.

The two walked over to his table, Greg almost tripping over a small child running about the place. John looked around. This seemed to be a popular place for couples, despite it's new status. He looked over towards the booths on the opposite side of the restaurant and, for one moment, thought he saw a man that looked vaguely like Sherlock (albeit much, much skinnier, and haggard-looking, and bruised, very bruised), but then he was gone. John shook his head. Greg was right; he needed to have a little down time, and stop worrying so much.

They reached the table, Mycroft flipping closed his pocket watch. "Gregory. So good to see you." He said coolly.

Greg laughed. "Ever the iceman, Mickey, aren't you?" he said in a teasing voice. He slid into the booth beside Mycroft and kissed his cheek gently. "Excuse me if my greeting is a little more friendly than that."

John had never seen Mycroft blush before, but the man lit up like a beacon at Greg's 'greeting'. John coughed uncomfortably, once again wishing Sherlock was here to lighten the mood with a few snarky comments at Mycroft's expense. "Right. Um, should I just go find another table, or is it safe to sit without having a floor show?"

This time both men blushed. Mycroft spoke up, trying to regain control over his emotions. "Sorry, John. Gregory has been very busy at Scotland Yard lately and we really haven't seen much of each other, so…"

Greg coughed, trying to prevent Mycroft from completing the awkward statement he had been about to make. "So how about we order some food?"

The waiter came and took their order, promising to be back momentarily with drinks for them all. John knew that the two were trying hard to include him, but it wasn't easy. After the fourth awkward third-wheel conversation, he excused himself to the bathroom, telling them to text him when the food was ready. Mycroft and Greg didn't seem to have any complaints, and John resigned himself to an evening of takeout in the toilets.

He pushed open the door to the bathroom and looked around to find a deserted stall. He was surprised to find that the whole bathroom was, eerily, empty. He walked towards the very back and noticed a soft sniffling sound coming from the last stall. It wasn't locked, and didn't appear to be all the way closed. Was it a child, he wondered? Maybe they were in trouble.

Now, John had never been a peeping Tom. But, if someone was in trouble, it was in his nature to help them, bathroom or not. He gently pushed open the stall, and saw, just as he expected, a person, lying face-down on the floor, in a puddle of bile and what he could assume must be the upcoming contents of the person's stomach.

He kneeled down. The person had black, wildly matted curls that reminded him of Sherlock, and was wearing a purple shirt that reminded him of Sherlock, also. Maybe they were right; he did need to get out more. He put his hand on the man's back. "Are you all right, sir?"

He heard a muffled gasp. "John?" the figure muttered. The person turned over, and John got the shock of his life.

"Sh…Sherlock?"


	9. Awful Sounds

"Sherlock? Oh my god, it's really you. Sherlock, can you hear me? How are you hurt?"

Sherlock looked up towards John's face, his eyes dim. "Who…" then his eyes widened and he sat up, wincing through the pain. "John! You can't be here!" he gasped. "He'll kill you!"

John pulled Sherlock into his arms. "I'll kill the bastard first."

Sherlock coughed into John's jumper. "No, John, please, I can't lose you, I can't bear it, it hurts, oh god, it hurts, John, please help me…"

John frowned. What was he saying? "Sherlock, can you hear me? What's wrong? What is it that hurts?"

Sherlock groaned. "E-everything…"

John leaned over the consulting detective, now drifting in and out of consciousness. "Sherlock, I'm going to take off your shirt so that I can see the damage, okay?" his fingers worked the buttons even as he spoke.

As John got to the bottom button Sherlock bucked up. "No, John! No, don't take it off, you won't like it, you won't like what's there…" The detective tried to push the doctor away, but his weak arms dropped back to the tiled floor. John added malnutrition to the list of injuries in his head.

John pulled the shirt away from Sherlock's torso and gasped at what he saw. Sherlock's ribs and chest were a variable canvas of brilliantly colored bruises, yellows and purples and blacks and even some ugly red cuts. His face had been bruised, that John had noticed when he walked in, but he had assumed it was from the other day. Now he could see that there were new bruises overlying the old ones, creating a spectacular black eye and a very puffy lip and cheek.

He sighed. "Oh, Sherlock." He whispered. "Never could keep out of trouble, could you?"

John reached down to unbuckle the detective's trousers to make sure he wasn't damaged anywhere else. However, as he lay his hand on Sherlock's belt buckle, the man flailed wildly and threw a weak punch at John's face, just barely nicking his chin. He tried pathetically to defend himself, scooting backwards a few inches. "No, Victor! Not again…please, not again! Not tonight! I can't…please, don't…I'm not ready, no, please…"

John felt hot anger rising in his chest. What had the bastard done to Sherlock? Struggling to keep his anger cool, he reached out and gently placed a hand on Sherlock's own. "Shh, Sherlock. It's okay, it's me, John, I'm not going to hurt you, shh, it's okay, I won't take off the trousers if you're not ready…"

Sherlock slowly calmed down. "Okay. Okay." He muttered under his breath. All at once, he seemed to come back to the real world. "John? John…did I do that?" he asked quietly, pointing to a small cut on John's chin. "Oh, god, John, I'm so sorry, please don't hurt me, I didn't mean it, I thought…"

John nodded, keeping a firm hold on Sherlock's hand. "I know, you thought it was Trevor. I would have done the same, Sherlock, it's just fine."

Sherlock looked up at him, eyes slightly unfocused. "Victor…John, he's here. He came…with me, brought me here to torture me…I'm going to die, John, why do I feel so cold? He'll kill me…and I'll never get to see John again…"

John was now very worried. Sherlock seemed to have forgotten he was here. And the consulting detective being cold was worrying.

Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes got huge, and he raised a trembling hand to point over John's shoulder. "John…John, he's here, John, watch out…"

John shook his head, trying to calm the man. "No, Sherlock, he's not, he's not here, he's not going to get you…"

An unfamiliar voice rang out. "Are you sure about that?"

John felt something hard hit the back of his head and he sprawled sideways across the tiled floor. Trying not to lose consciousness, he felt his head carefully, and his fingers came away wet with blood. He judged the cut on the back of his head to be small, but worth stitches. He sat up carefully, his head spinning, and cleared the blood and dust from his eyes in time to feel someone grab his hands and tie them effectively to his sides. He cursed himself. He was no use to Sherlock now.

The person hauled him up to sit on the toilet and tied him around the bowl so that he couldn't move. He blinked, trying to bring his eyes back into focus. By the time he could see straight again, he had been blindfolded and gagged, all senses cut off except smell and hearing.

The voice began to speak again, directing it's words at Sherlock, who John supposed was still huddled in a small ball on the floor. "Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock…didn't I tell you to go to the bathroom and be back in five minutes? And I come in here to check on you when the time is up, and I find you playing around with another man?"

John heard a small, ragged moan. "No, no, no, Victor, it isn't what it looked like, he's a doctor, just an acquaintance, he was helping me…" a dull thud echoed in the room and Sherlock let out a pained whimper. "Please, Victor, it wasn't my fault…"

So this mystery man was Victor Trevor. John would have loved to rip the man's throat out right then and there, had it not been for his slight restriction. He heard footsteps and felt a hand caressing his cheek. "So _this_ is John Watson. So nice to meet you, Doctor, though I believe we already met once before…when I was shagging Sherlock behind your back…"

John struggled against his bonds, growling at the man. "Bl'dy B'st'rd!" he screamed around the gag.

Victor abruptly pulled away his hand. "Now, now," he said in a patronizing voice, "Be nice, Doctor Watson. After all, your best friend Sherlock is my boyfriend."

John heard the footsteps going away, towards Sherlock. "And I believe it's time that I exercised my privileges as such," Victor said in his silky voice, "Sherlock, sit up, you great sniveling mess."

John heard a sniff and the sound of Sherlock struggling to pull himself upright. He heard Sherlock's gasps of pain as his bruised ribs and chest were stretched.

He heard a belt buckle being undone and felt sick. No, Trevor wasn't going to do this here, in the men's washroom, in front of John, was he? John shook his head at his own words, scolding himself for how it sounded. The man shouldn't be doing it anywhere. He heard Sherlock moan, and then heard a small scuffle and a slap.

"Sherlock! How dare you!" he heard Victor's voice, pretending to sound outraged. From what he could tell, Sherlock had resisted, and Victor hadn't been happy about it, though was obviously ecstatic about having a reason to hit the detective. "Now you'll have to be punished."

John heard silence for a moment, and then a sharp intake of breath and a sickening crack. He could tell, just from the noises, that one of Sherlock's fingers was definitely broken. To the detective's credit, Sherlock hadn't cried out. John heard the sound of expensive fabric ripping, and knew that he didn't have much time left to come up with a plan.

That was when John Watson realized that Victor Trevor had forgotten something relatively simple.

He had forgotten to search John for his phone.

Said phone resided in John's left trouser pocket. He thought for a moment as he heard someone unbuttoning a shirt (Trevor, most likely). He was not predominately left-handed, and he definitely did not want to end up dropping their only line to rescue in the bog. So, very, very carefully, he wiggled his hand into his pocket and clasped shaky fingers around the phone.

Managing to extract his phone from the pocket, John wondered about how to dial. He couldn't see, and the only two people he would trust to come rescue them were in the exact same restaurant…and, of course, he had no idea what their numbers were. Stupid, stupid John, he thought; when they got out of this, he swore to himself he would memorize all the important numbers in his phone, even Mycroft's.

John heard a second belt being unbuckled, which he surmised was Sherlock's, because of the soft sob that followed it. A zipper was heard next and he knew he didn't have much time.

Think, John, think! He told himself. And then it came to him. If he could just get to his favorites menu, _Lestrade, Greg _was the first name on there. But what was the path? Thinking hard, John pressed the top right, arrowed down one, clicked it, and, hoping to god and any other high deity that might exist that he was right, he pressed Call.

The phone rang, and rang, and rang, as John held it behind him carefully, trying to muffle the sound and not drop it in the toilet. He heard fabric ruffling, and could tell it was Sherlock's trousers. _C'mon, Greg, _he thought, _pick up your damn phone_!

And the dial tone stopped, to a familiar voice saying, "Hello?"

He heard Victor say, "What? What are you doing, Watson?"

"Greg! Greg, quick, the washroom, I found him…"

John felt something hit him across the head and he felt no more.


	10. Death Marches

Greg looked down at his phone, the dial tone sounding loudly, like a death march. He looked up at Mycroft, who was staring at him questionably. "The washroom," was all he managed to get out before he darted from the table towards the exact place the call had come from. Mycroft stood, picking up his umbrella, and followed, picking his way carefully through the diners' tables.

Greg burst into the washroom quite flamboyantly, practically falling through the doorway. Mycroft came in right behind him, almost tripping over the inspector. As Greg looked up and Mycroft struggled to regain his balance, the sight that met their eyes made both men choke.

In the very last stall in the small restaurant washroom was Victor Trevor, standing over a practically naked, shivering, whimpering Sherlock Holmes. John Watson was tied to a toilet nearby with large amounts of rope, blindfolded and out cold. There was a bruise and a small cut on his forehead, but other than that he looked to be relatively unharmed. What most concerned the two men was that Victor, who had frozen at the sight of the two men bursting into the room, had been in the act of unzipping his fly. One didn't have to be a consulting detective to know what would have come next had they not interrupted.

Victor quickly picked the quivering detective up and, facing the men, held a sharp, wickedly gleaming knife to his throat. "You move, he dies." Victor stated coldy, pressing the cold metal against Sherlock's pale skin, causing a thin red line to stand out.

Mycroft raised his hands in surrender, gesturing with his umbrella for Greg to do the same. "Mr. Trevor," he greeted the man smoothly. "Would you please step away from my brother?"

Victor sneered. "You think a _please_ is going to win me over, Mr. Holmes? You're even stupider than the freak." Greg saw Sherlock wince at the two insults he was given.

Mycroft stepped forward, and Victor pressed the knife more closely against that alabaster neck, causing a few drops of scarlet blood to fall. "I'll do it, Mr. Holmes." He grinned maniacally. "I'll kill him."

Mycroft smiled gently and shook his head. "No, you won't."

He raised his umbrella, and a gunshot sounded throughout the entire restaurant. Victor Trevor's body was blown backwards by the force of the bullet, falling to the side, away from the twitching form of Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft stood straighter and dusted off the front lapels of his suit jacket. He stepped forward, and very gently helped his brother to his feet. Greg tugged off his own jacket and wrapped it tenderly around Sherlock, as the man was wearing only a pair of thin silk boxers and would undoubtedly be cold. Mycroft nodded his thanks. "Will you check on John, please, Gregory?"

Greg nodded, and went over immediately. After studying John for a few minutes, Greg did the only thing he really knew how to do to revive a patient; he filled a glass of water at the sink and splashed the whole thing in John's face.

John came back to the world, coughing, rivulets of water spilling down his face. Greg went to work on his bindings while John gradually returned to the state of the fully conscious.

When his hands were free, John immediately yanked the blindfold away from his eyes. "Where's Sherlock? Is he okay? Oh, God, Greg, Victor Trevor, he was going to…he was gonna…"

Greg grabbed John's face, focusing his eyes on the consulting detective, leaning on Mycroft heavily and wrapped in Greg's jacket.

"He's fine, John. He's going to be just fine."

Greg knew that it wasn't quite true. Knowing Sherlock, the man would be physically recovered in a matter of weeks, with the right diet and care. But mentally? As a police officer, Greg knew that victims often never recovered from their traumatic experiences.

However, as he watched John (who had practically ripped the consulting detective away from Mycroft) hugging Sherlock for all he was worth, he had to admit that he had never known a man more likely to fully recover from all that he had been through. Sherlock was…well, he was Sherlock! He was everything that was unique and different. Besides, he had John. And though Greg had shamelessly contributed to the Scotland Yard betting pool on whether the two men would ever 'get it on', he had to admit that as long as Sherlock had John, he had a very good chance at recovery.

Sherlock Holmes was going to be all right.

_The End_

* * *

A/N; So I wasn't actually planning to leave it here like this…but I couldn't resist a happy ending :D. However, I am thinking along the lines of a possible sequel (even though I have God knows how many sequel stories already)…thoughts? And, of course, thank you thank you thank you to everyone who favorited, followed, reviewed, and even just read this fic…it means so much to me! I really hope you enjoyed it, and…well, I'll just shut up now. Thank you, and keep believing in Sherlock Holmes!

Ta,

Anonymoustache


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